


Conviction

by Jarakrisafis



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Bloodplay, Bondage, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-03
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:32:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jarakrisafis/pseuds/Jarakrisafis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Special Ops sometimes need rather... specialised medical solutions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conviction

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on LJ transformers kinkmeme

I start at the hesitant touch on my shoulder plating, my buzzsaw almost taking Red Alerts sensory horns off as he ducked at the last moment, “My apologies for startling you Ratchet.” I transformed my saw back into my arm as the Security Director shifted nervously, his electromagnetic field flaring irregularly.

“What’s wrong Red?” It had to be something serious to not only draw him out of his lair, but into mine. 

Sparks flickered between his horns before he vented atmosphere, visibly calming himself. “Jazz’s back.” 

When? How? Where? The multitude of questions all hung in my processor before I settled on asking just one. “Why are you telling me this?” After all, if he had been hurt the saboteur would already have been on one of my berths, not Red skulking in here to inform me of his return. In fact, it would probably have been announced to the entire Ark, there were quite a lot of worried mechs now that he was so long overdue and Mirage had reported back that the cells in the Nemesis were empty. 

Red tilted his helm to one side, studying me carefully before speaking. “He’s in the lower decks. I don’t know how long he’s been there, I picked him up on a routine scan by chance, but he’s not responding to his comm.” 

“Slag.” Wonderful. Just what I needed. Special ops mechs often had so many patches and coding overhauls that it wasn’t unusual for them to come back from missions with their processors in disarray. At least skulking around and avoiding company was better than attacking anything that moved. There is still probably a hole back on Cybertron in Prime’s old office in Iacon from when Jazz started reading every identity signal as Decepticon. “I need to get him in here and do a full defrag and processor scan.” 

Red snorted softly, a wholly human gesture which nonetheless seemed to fit him so well. “Right, I’ll just wander up to him and tell him he needs a scan.” 

“No, you won’t.” Better to be safe than sorry with Red as he had given no indication that he was being sarcastic and without getting down there I couldn’t tell if Jazz would fight or flee and Red wasn’t the best hand to hand fighter around. “You’ll get hold of Mirage, quietly, and send him.” 

“Will do.” He seemed to understand the un-stated fact that if I could find Mirage I’d send him myself. But the Noble had been elusive since he returned from the Nemesis without his commander and Red Alert was likely the only mech who could track him down when he refused to answer his commlink, and that was often by way of following the trail of doors opening when no mech was around. 

I shook my helm as the door swished closed behind Red, as if putting mechs back together after they got themselves hurt wasn’t enough; special operations just had to land another mess on my hands. 

“Boss? You ok?” Hoist, returning from completing the inventory had frozen in the doorway as he stared at me in concern. I theoretically could tell him as his help would be appreciated, but there are some things it is better to keep to as few mechs as possible. The true extent of Jazz and Mirages’ activities is probably one of them. Before we had been stranded on the Ark they had their own support crew: tacticians, medics, security. Now all they had was Red and I to try and keep them out of trouble and cover up there less savoury activities. There are some things even Prime just doesn’t need to know. 

“I’m fine Hoist, just got a lot on my processor.” 

\------------------------ 

“Well, there’s good news and bad news.” Mirage says as he stalks across the medbay and hops up onto the berth nearest to me with a wince. “You remember the time Prime almost got a new hole in his chassis and it was only pure luck that he was bending down to pick up a datapad that saved him? Well, it seems to be a similar problem.” 

“And that means the good news is?” I have to ask as I finish scanning the Noble and working out that despite several gashes now adorning his frame they are all very shallow, barely scratching the protoform beneath and missing any major fluid lines. 

“He’s not reading us all as ‘cons, this time.” 

I pause in setting the heat on my arcwelder to stare at him. “I wouldn’t exactly call that good news.” I shake my helm and motion for him to lie back so that I can start to close his injuries up. 

“I’d guess that he’s got no identity scans on any of us, so he’s running as soon as he hear footsteps rather than take the chance we’re a Decepticon.” Mirage ventures after a moment, only a slight grimace adorning his face showing the discomfort he is in as I seal his armour. 

“Which would also indicate he has no visual memory of us.” I conclude as I power down my welder. In other words, he was captured at some point and fire-walled everything to prevent giving away information. Leaving only the fact that the Ark is home as a reference for if he escapes, which, given his presence, he obviously did. 

Mirage has clearly come to the same conclusion as he sits up again, a small huff of displeasure escaping him as he probes the weld lines on his torso. “We need to convince him we aren’t Decepticons, or forcibly bring him in so that you can sort his processor out.” 

\------------------------ 

“Well, if Bluestreak knows every bot will.” Red Alert seems resigned as he disconnects from the security hub to give me his full attention. 

I shake my helm, “I erased the memory. All he remembers is going to get some supplies from the lower levels, I told him he had slipped and cracked his helm on the edge of a storage container.” 

“So we have some time to come up with a plan.” Red said, clearly doing his best not to think about how many medical ethics I have just broken. 

“Not really, we need to deal with this before any more mechs run into him, there are only so many times a mech can slip before suspicions will rise.” Red Alert has to take a moment to disengage the target lock he has acquired on Mirage before answering, his glare telling the spy exactly what he thinks of his cloaking technology and appearing without warning. 

“So, you already have a plan?” he asks me when the sparks around his helm settle back into the low flicker of activity. 

“All I need to do is connect to Jazz’s processor and knock it out of whatever loop it’s got itself into that is stopping him from recognising identity beacons.” 

“But how are you going to connect, it’s not like you can just waltz up and ask him to lower his firewalls.” He trails off with a whine of denial, “No. Absolutely not. You need a full processor check yourself if you’re thinking what I think you are.” As often as Jazz has said that I would fit right in with the special ops medics, the same could equally be said about Red Alert not fitting in. He does what he has to because there simply is no other mech skilled enough on board the Ark to fill the role. 

“I’m going to try and tempt Jazz into connecting and then use the line to get into his processor and work out what’s wrong.” From the corner of my vision and out of Red Alert’s line of sight I see Mirage incline his helm. Respect amongst special ops is something hard to earn and his approval has me cutting off Red’s protest before he can start ranting. “If you have another idea, I’d be open to consider it.” 

He remained mute for a moment, no doubt running scenarios through his tactical centre before finally expelling a gust of air through his vents. “No. He knows the Ark better than any mech except Mirage; it’ll take us far too long to catch him.” 

“And far too many injuries.” The Noble added, his fresh welds enhancing the seriousness of his warning. Jazz had only been trying to drive him away; he had stopped the attack as soon as the Noble had retreated. If they kept harrying the saboteur there was a real chance he wouldn’t stop at superficial injuries. 

“And we’d have to let the rest of the crew know what’s up.” I added as a final death knell to Red’s protests. 

“I’ll be keeping a camera on you at all times.” He warned, “and you,” one black finger prodded the Noble, “will be going with him.” 

Mirage simply stared at Red Alert who poked him again, an expectant air surrounding him until the race car inclined his helm. “Very well.” 

It seemed to satisfy the security mech as he turned back to his monitors, data lines already connecting him to Teletraan’s hub. “Let me know when you’re ready to go.” 

* * *

I should have known I couldn’t trust them. 

They’re all the same. All wanting something and there’s no way to tell what they want until it’s too late. 

Here is safe. Dark. Quiet. They can’t want anything if they can’t find me. 

They can’t want a mech tied up and left in the middle of the corridor. 

Can’t... what? 

I stop, every sensor turned as high as possible as I slink back to the last intersection and poke my helm around the corner. Withdrawing again I pull my visor off and manually reset it before once again staring down the corridor. 

Nope. Apparently my visor isn’t malfunctioning, despite the crack marring its surface. There really is a mech chained up in the middle of a dimly lit corridor. 

That’s not something you see every day. 

Or at all really. 

Interesting. Wonder why he’s here? Lover’s spat? Punishment? Prank? 

My footfalls are silent as I approach, stopping just out of range of passive scanners. Unless he’s actively sweeping the corridor for spark signatures he won’t even know I’m here. 

“Who’s there?” he tenses when he realises he is no longer alone as I curse. Too close. I scramble away as he tries to twist in his bonds to see me. 

Peering back around the corner I can see that he has his helm tilted to try and pick up any sounds, his armour pulled in tight to his protoform. Defensive. Not a threat. Not unless he can dislocate his wrists joints and break several fingers to get out of the cuffs holding his arms behind his back. 

“Problem mech?” I ask as I sidle up behind him, letting my optics track the chains looping around all his limbs and connecting to a collar welded around his neck. I could free him. But if I do that then I’ll have to get away somehow. Better to knock him offline and then untie him, I’ll be long gone by the time he gets back online. 

“Jazz.” I freeze, my hand brushing against his throat below the collar, ready to clamp down and stop his energon flow and send him into stasis. But whoever the mech is he knows who I am and seems to like me if the fact that he is nuzzling his helm against my arm, a soft chirr of happiness leaving his vocaliser as he sprawls strutlessly across my lap with a soft rattle of the chains. 

But that still doesn’t explain why he is chained up here in the first place. 

* * *

I relax slightly as his hand moves away from my neck. I chirr again, pressing my helm against one thigh before he pushes me off. I can almost see him processing my actions. On one hand there is an apparently chained up mech wanting to interface in an unused section of the Ark. On the other hand there’s a conveniently _chained up mech_ wanting to interface... He scans the corridor, almost like he’s expecting a group of mechs to jump out as soon as his attention is diverted. 

“No idea who you are, mech, or how you got here like, ah, that.” He plucks at one of the chains, apparently convinced that I’m not a threat in my current state. And, really, I’m not. I can’t even reach far enough to get my welder out of subspace, and my best speed has been reduced to something resembling a strange shuffle. 

“I’m an Autobot, my designation is Ratchet.” I can see that he is unconvinced as he tilts his helm at me, one hand reaching out to trace my Autobot brand. 

“That’s what they said last time.” He doesn’t elaborate and I am left guessing who ‘they’ are. Although I can guess at several Decepticons who would be canny enough to realise what is wrong with him and try to lure him in by way of false assurances. “Although they weren’t in chains.” He finally adds as he gives one of them a slight shake, letting the links rattle as it tugs at my limbs. 

“I’m the Autobot medic. I thought you’d feel safer if I couldn’t hurt you.” 

He moves without any warning; straddling my chassis in a single move and for the first time I feel a tendril of fear curl around my spark. Oh, I’ve ‘faced with him before, but never in such a helpless position, even if Mirage and Red Alert are watching to make sure he doesn’t extinguish me. Hands settle above my spark, the thick metal never feeling so thin. “You thought _I’d_ feel safer? How about you mech, do _you_ feel safe?” His optical band seems to darken as he lets his hands roam over my armour. “I might not be able to remember who you are, but I do know a lot of ways to offline you from just this position.” 

I can almost feel his optics boring into mine, despite the visor between us, “You trust me.” He seems surprised by his observation as he runs a finger along the edge of my chevron. “Pity I don’t trust you.” For the first time Mirage’s warning that mission protocols would see to his survival above all else was starting to make sense and I wished that I was back on Cybertron where the special operations division had their own medics, or alternatively that I was actually trained to deal with things like this, not having to rely upon the hasty guidance that Mirage has given me. 

* * *

“Pretty.” I let my fingers map out the frame beneath me, his armour quivering; anticipation, fear, apprehension? I don’t know yet. 

I frown as I pass over a glyph etched into the metal of one shoulder. Medic. He did say that, so at least one thing wasn’t a lie. Or was it? They could have etched that in to make it more convincing. But I know how to test that, medics respond so well to stimuli, their sensors attuned to catch the smallest thing wrong with other mechs. Especially in their hands, so many pressure sensors to find the smallest of fractures. He doesn’t even have time to protest as I simply use the chains to roll him over, his bound limbs stopping any resistance he may have wanted to make. 

“So, medic,” I stroke across one palm, feeling more than hearing his engine hitch slightly and the slight rattle of the chains as he attempts to move his hands away from me, “let me get this straight.” I move onto the other palm, and up along the fingers. “You are doing this because you think it will make me trust you.” The fingers twitch as I wrap my hand around one, slowly increasing the pressure. 

The response takes a moment to happen as he squirms again. “Yes.” 

“And then when I trust you? I what, unchain you?” 

His vocaliser buzzes with static before he answers, tone light. “It would be nice.” 

Leaning forward I flick my glossa over the tips of the fingers, a pleased rumble of his engine betraying that he likes it, before I move upwards, mouth beside his audial receiver. “And what happens if I don’t decide I can trust you?” I don’t give him chance to answer, sliding back down his frame to suckle on the end of one of his fingers, swirling my glossa over the various transformation seams. 

The way he is responding is at least proving that he didn’t lie about being a medic, the hand I am not attending to clenching as he moans. 

* * *

That, really shouldn’t feel so good. But it is like fine high grade, going straight to my spark, burning through my circuits, leaving a heady feeling in its wake. I am trying to remain objective. Mission: entice Jazz into getting so hot he wants to connect by hardline. Not as hard as it may seem because he likes feeling another mechs arousal. The main problem is more likely to be me being fragged into a pile of pliable metal before he gets to the point where he wants to connect. 

“You make a very enticing picture you know mech, all helpless.” I can feel his engine purring where he is pressed against my aft, the light growl of a high performance sports car humming in counterpoint with my own deeper pitched engine. I want to respond to him, but my vocaliser and processor have gone on a long hike and the only thing that comes out is a static filled whine. 

He laughs as he runs a hand over my aft, “good things come to those who obey.” I’m sure the human proverb is ‘good things come to those who wait’ but I’m not in a position to argue semantics as he tightens a hand around my pelvic armour, tugging upwards. 

Slightly awkward, what with all the chains, but in the end he seems satisfied as I let one of my shoulders take my weight, my arms still trapped behind my back and I have no doubt that he will refuse to undo them even if it would let me brace myself. 

“Open up.” He taps my panel with one hand, his other gently teasing at a gap in my hip armour, tugging at wiring when I don’t release my equipment fast enough for his liking. “Better.” He purrs as he runs his hand down my spike. “Makes me sad I don’t have any other toys with me, but I suppose I can make do.” The fingers trace the rim of my valve, teasing the exterior sensors. 

If I had the ability to push backwards against him I would, but alas I am having no luck in breaking the chain between my wrists and neck so that I can gain some leverage, anything to make him stop drawing it out, the tip of one finger barely inside my valve. I growl as he laughs; my engine rumbling in counterpoint. Slagging Pit, why does he have to choose now to bring out his playful side. 

“Jazz.” It comes out as a snarl with a squeak of surprise at the end for good measure as he finally, _finally_ lets his finger slip deeper. And then the fragger stops moving again, letting me rock my hips as best I can to gain stimulation. Slag him for liking to draw out the first couple of overloads before he plugs in, I could have had this done by now and he wouldn’t. Still. Be. Teasing. Me. 

Next time I’m having Mirage put a quick release catch on the slagging chains. This should be illegal. Probably is. Section forty-nine of the Iacon treaty regarding prisoner treatment, because this is torture. And the glitch is enjoying it. 

I almost tell him to get on with it, but he’s one step ahead, instead my vocaliser crackles as I mute it to avoid screaming. 

* * *

I laugh at the telltale splutter of a hastily muted vocaliser as I hold still, buried to the hilt in his valve, his optics are almost white, dilated to the point where he cannot be focussing on anything in particular, his vents hitching as he attempts to cool his circuits. 

“There, there.” I soothe as I let my fingers wander over his, ignoring the involuntary twitching as he masters the pain of such a sudden entry, his valve adjusting to my presence. “That’s not too bad is it?” I purr as I begin to move, rolling my hips with every thrust. 

“Almost makes me wish I remember you, mech. You’re a slagging good frag.” My hands are tight around his pelvic armour, curling around the edges to use it as leverage, his frame shaking as I use him. “I think I’d quite like to remember using you like this.” He whimpers, able to do nothing but take what I’m giving. 

Charge is dancing across his armour, discharging to me in short sharp bursts of pleasure as he builds steadily towards overload. What they say about medics, slag but they didn’t tell half of it, I could probably overload him just with his hands. Have to wonder what it feels like to have them in a valve, the slick warmth of lubricant seeping into transformation seams and the feeling of the valve lining clenching on all those pressure sensors. If I didn’t need to keep him tied up just in case he is a Decepticon spy then I’d connect up and have him try so I can find out. 

Bet it’s almost as good as what I’m feeling now as I slow my rhythm, letting his valve clench around my spike, tightening in a wave as he keens his release, charge crackling across his armour. Oh I could definitely keep this one; I free a hand from his hip to stroke along his spinal struts, his back arched as he shudders, each slow thrust of my spike making him moan and tremble. 

* * *

Frag. 

Literally. 

I can say that I’ve never really seen pain as something to enjoy while interfacing, seems Jazz is trying to prove me wrong. And he’s enjoying this, his claws slipping into the seams of my pelvic armour holding me in place, his quiet laughter echoing around the corridor as I try and meet his thrusts, charge already building again in my circuits. How he’s holding back I don’t know. 

He always did like to be in charge. I think this is the real Jazz, the one hidden behind his usual cheery mask. Well, can’t say Mirage didn’t warn me what I was getting myself into. 

And slag. Mirage. And Red. 

“What are you thinking about now, mech?” Jazz purrs as I shudder, my engine revving as I squirm. I’d managed to forget about them. 

I shake my helm as best I can before turning my gaze towards the floor, just the thought of them watching making my spark pulse quicken, a whimper escaping my vocaliser. 

If I could see Jazz’s face I would bet that he is smirking. But I can’t see. Only feel as his fingers tighten around my plating, and he hisses, the warmth of transfluid flooding my valve before he lowers himself across my frame, his spike still buried deep within me. 

The gentle rumble of his engine is soothing as he runs his fingers across dents in my armour. “Do you still trust me mech?” 

My spark, if it could speak, would be giving a resounding no, but thankfully it has no say in the matter. “Yes” 

“You’re a strange mech, you know that.” He levers himself up from my frame, his spike sliding free from my valve, leaving me feeling strangely empty. He rolls me over with little effort, one hand smoothing over the scratches on my shoulder where it scraped against the floor. “But Con’s will do a lot of things to save their own frame and agreeing with a captor is the oldest trick in the book.” Well slag if he isn’t still as sharp as ever. Pity his logic centre couldn’t have taken a knock too, would have saved me a lot of trouble. 

* * *

Heh. Well, what do you know, no matter what I might tell him, I’m starting to think he might actually be telling the truth. But it doesn’t really matter. If he is a con, well, he’ll be getting what he deserves. If he’s an Autobot then he should know me, he should be expecting this, and he can’t really complain. 

The involuntary nervous flickering of his armour is a reward in itself as he holds himself still as I let my hands explore. Does he truly think he can remain still? I don’t give him any warning as I dig my fingers deep into his shoulder joint, his yelp and flinch as I drag my claws over the gears to curl around a bundle of wiring. 

Now he is still. Very still, his optics dimmed as he stares up at me. Heh, what do you know. I half expected him to ask me to let them go. I untangle my fingers with a short chuckle as he relaxes again, joints he may not have realised he had locked releasing with a hiss of hydraulics. 

Only for him to tense up again, his optics brightening in shock as I remove a dagger from my subspace and gently press it against his plating. Even with only the flat of the blade against him he is venting hard, his engine thrumming as he lifts his helm, optics locked on my hands. “Jazz?” he sounds almost lost as I twist the blade till an edge rests against his armour. 

“You said you trust me.” I press down as I speak, feeling the blade dig into his armour, slicing into the circuitry beneath. Not deep enough to hit anything vital, but enough to hit his sensor net and the energon lines that supply the sensors. Energon wells to the surface as I pull my blade free and reposition it, only to have him pull away, his hands scrabbling for purchase underneath his frame. “You said you trust me.” I repeat, my free hand reaching out to grasp the collar and hold him, waiting till his venting slows. 

I place the knife again, careful to align it correctly, ignoring his faint keening as he trembles, his armour rattling, but he makes no move to get away. Because he realises he cannot or because he is resigned to what I want I don’t know. Nor do I care. 

As long as he stays still I’ll be happy. 

Very happy. 

“Perfect.” The image is saved to my memory files. “That wasn’t too bad was it?” I ask as I trace over one cheek, his optics powering back on, glowing a bright white in the darkness as he attempts to focus on me before raising his helm. His optics widen as he realises what I have created, the Autobot brand outlined on his chest by his own energon. He must have muted his vocaliser at some point as it crackles with static as he tries to speak, to answer me. 

I let my free hand drift down to my spike, I am hard already, the sickly sweet scent of energon invading my senses and the power I hold over him going straight to my spark in a heady rush. I take no time in lining myself up and Sinking into his valve. I allow myself to relax into the pleasure, he’s still tight, pain making him tense, gripping me in all the right ways as I rock my frame, simply enjoying the rippling of his valve as I put pressure on my artwork, smearing his lifeblood across his chassis and marring the image I have created 

I run my fingers down his spike, a faint line of energon welling as my claws scrape the surface and he bucks beneath me, a static laced whimper escaping his vocaliser as I locate his dataports. 

* * *

“Open up.” I can do no more than whimper as he taps my dataport. I slide it open without complaint, letting him connect us. Pleasure floods my senses, the outer layers of his processor are open, sensor information being routed through to me and suddenly I can feel twice as much. Not just the ache and stretch of my valve, but the pressure and warmth surrounding his spike. 

And below that I can feel his presence probing my firewalls, using the pleasure as a distraction. If I hadn’t been expecting it I’d never have noticed. I lower my outer firewalls, letting my own sensor data mingle with his, the stream of pleasure and the last lingering remnants of that searing pain distracting him for a moment as he rocks his frame into mine with more force, his engine revving. 

It takes a moment for him to collect himself and return to his previous task, getting past my inner firewalls.His fingers trace over a line of energon, probing at the injury, the resulting pain disorientating and he slips deeper into my processor. 

I hiss as I rock my frame to meet his thrusts, letting the pleasure loop back to him in a wave, giving me the time to shore up my protection and push him back. 

He snarls, visor darkening as one hand is splayed on my chest. He knows that I know what he is doing. His growl is low, feral as he slams his hips into mine, his hands sliding between armour to dig into transformation seams and tug at any wiring that he can reach. Not gentle. Not considerate. Pain flashes across my sensors, not as a disguise for his actions now, but a distraction as he hurls himself at my firewalls, intent on hacking his way through. 

He has been taught to retrieve information, and he is doing that now, pushing past the obstacles that I am placing in his way to slow him, searching for the full truth of everything I have said tonight. But there are few that can beat a trained medic in a battle of wills inside a processor. No matter what distractions might be used. 

He cannot sense me sifting through his files, ghosting past his outer firewalls like they are not there, medical over-rides letting me pass without even logging my presence in his archive files. In a way I know his processor better than he does, passwords and codes dropping barrier after barrier as I restore the files he has partitioned into his main memory core. Dumping them I retreat from his processor; his sense of victory at getting past my firewalls to see that I have been speaking the truth mingling with the newly restored memory files and with the rush of pleasure as he overloads, the feedback overriding the pain and sending me over the edge. 

“Ratchet?” 

Hesitancy. Uncertainty. Neither are emotions that I would associate with Jazz, but he is staring down at me with confusion as I feel him scanning the files that have appeared in his memory core. His fingertips ghost across a line of energon welling from a cut, a soft whine of denial escaping his vocaliser. 

* * *

“S’okay, you’re home.” Ratchet says but I shake my helm as I lift my hand, energon staining it lilac. 

“I hurt you.” I stare at the liquid clinging to my fingers, slag it I could have killed him. Did he even think this through before he came down here? Has he never listened when I tell him that we operate under different coding when behind enemy lines; coding that makes it so very easy to disregard consequences. “I could have killed you Ratchet.” My vocaliser cuts off with a static burst as I clench my hands into fists, careful not to touch him. 

The denial of such a thing is automatic and it confuses me until I realise we are still connected, and it is not me feeling that way, but Ratchet’s calm acceptance of the situation. It is doing nothing to assuage my fears and I disconnect our data cables, cutting off the flow of calm and serenity which is not me. 

For I am anything but calm as I reach out a finger to gingerly probe at one of the cuts, trying to ascertain the damage, only to pull back as his engine revs and he winces. “Why would you let me do this? You could have just brought me down with stunners and dragged my aft back to the medbay.” 

A small smirk makes its way onto his face for a moment. “Do you really think that would have worked?” 

Of course. All they had to do was... find me. And as far as I’m aware I only saw Mirage and Bluestreak, and only ‘Raj didn’t seem surprised to see me. No, in hindsight they would probably still be trying to find me, let alone bring me down. “I suppose not.” 

“Besides, I wasn’t alone. Mirage and Red were keeping an optic on us.” I jerk my helm up at his statement, sweeping the corridor until I spot the camera and the weight of an unseen hand on my shoulder is brief, but enough to let me know that the Mirage is here. 

“We should probably get back to the medbay.” I say as he shifts, discomfort clearly etched on his face. “And get you out of these.” I indicate the chains. 

I manage not to jump as Mirage becomes visible, a pair of bolt cutters held out for me. “Red says he really doesn’t want the chains back, so you can keep them Ratch.” 

That’s probably the last thing Ratchet wants and I am a little surprised at Red, usually he is so good at reading mechs. I don’t get further than shaking my helm at the suggestion though, before Ratchet smirks again. “Sounds like a good plan.” Unclipping the last of the metal I regard it for a moment before dumping it into a subspace pocket and help Ratchet to his feet. “I could do without the knife next time though.” He says as he lets us prop him up as we make our way back towards the medbay and I allow myself to smirk. 

Next time huh? “I think I can manage that.” 


End file.
